The Light of the Midnight Stars
Page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Rena Rossner
Cover design by Lauren Panepinto
Cover illustration by Tran Nguyen
Cover copyright © 2021 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First Edition: April 2021
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Quote here excerpted from Dancing at the Edge of the World, copyright © 1989 by Ursula K. Le Guin, used by permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020947784
ISBNs: 978-0-316-48346-9 (hardcover), 978-0-316-48363-6 (ebook)
E3-20210217-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
A note
Epigraph
Prologue
Sarah
Levana
Hannah
Sarah
Levana
Hannah
Sarah
Levana
Hannah
Sarah
Levana
Hannah
Sarah
Levana
Hannah
Sarah
Levana
Hannah
Levana
Sarah
Hannah
Stanna
Anna
Laptitza
Anna
Stanna
Laptitza
Stanna
Anna
Laptitza
Stanna
Anna
Laptitza
Stanna
Anna
Laptitza
Stanna
Anna
Laptitza
Stanna
Laptitza
Anna
Laptitza
Stanna
Anna
Stanna
Anna
Laptitza
Hannah
Stanna
Laptitza
Laptitza
Hannah
Stanna
Hannah
Levana
Sarah-Theodora
Levana
Hannah
Sarah-Theodora
Author’s note
Glossary
Acknowledgments
Discover More
Also by Rena Rossner
For my father, Miles Bunder, who remembers the candles, and in memory of my grandmother, Nettie Bunder z”l, who lit them
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A note
While this is a fantasy novel, it is set against the backdrop of real historical figures and events. Because the book is set in the mid- to late fourteenth century, I had to base any prayers and terms that were used on pre-existing texts—all of which, at that time, would have been in Hebrew. There is no way to know what accent my characters may have had and therefore if their pronunciation was close to Yiddish in intonation, or the modern Hebrew of today. What we do know is that this was a time period in Jewish history that was pre-Yiddish, which is why, though there is a “shtetl” feel to this book, there was no Yiddish language at the time. The epigraphs at the beginning of each section are from an invented Book of the Solomonars, but every word is based on contemporaneous Hebrew religious texts, among them, Rabbi Isaac Tyrnau’s Book of Customs, written in the early fifteenth century. I did the best I could to accurately reflect the knowledge, texts and customs that the characters would have been aware of at the time. There is a glossary at the end of the book with definitions of all the foreign words used (most of them Hebrew). Note that the sound represented by “ch” in Hebrew is pronounced as a throaty “h,” such as that found in “loch.”
“To find a world, maybe you have to have lost one. Maybe you have to be lost.”
—Ursula K. Le Guin
“Once upon a time what happened did happen, and if it had not happened, you would never have heard this story.”
—“Boys With Golden Stars”, The Violet Fairy Book
There was a time when everyone knew about Trnava. Once, it was a bustling market town that sat at the crossroads between the kingdom of Poland and the rest of Bohemia. Once, the king of Hungary, Charles the First, visited the town and conducted important negotiations there. But there are stories you don’t know. Stories the residents of the town like to keep secret.
If you listen closely, sometimes you can still hear the old stories whispered. Legends about Trnava and the people who lived there, about the great forests that once surrounded the town. There are tales of red-haired mountain men and women who could work miracles, of a people who could trace their lineage all the way back to the great King Solomon himself. Tales of a people who kept to themselves, who lived in a tiny quarter of the city of Trnava where they built their own house of worship. They say that on the ceiling of their synagogue there were a thousand tiny stars.
There are stories told that the congregants who worshiped in the synagogue could work miracles; that the oldest among them could fly cloud dragons in the sky. It is said that when the Black Mist spread over the kingdom of Hungary, these people were the only ones who fought and didn’t flee.
But the real story is much more complicated than that. It is the story of a people who forever lived at the edge of others’ kindness and yet still found a way to thrive. It is the story of a family that survived, and of three girls who, when faced with unimaginable tragedy and impossible odds, did what they had to do even though it wasn’t what was expected of them.
Some say they were just an ordinary family who lived in an extraordinary time.
But I know the truth.
This is the story of the Black Mist which swept through the Carpathian Mountains on the wings of a black dragon. Some say they can still feel it when they touch the trees, in the rich black sap that runs down to the roots to the rot that’s buried under the ground. Despite the beauty of the trees and the crystal-clear waters of the lakes and the incessant babble of the rivers and streams, the mist still carries its echo. The animals feel it in their bones.
It could return at any moment.
Once, Trnava was a village like any other village. It was made up of brick houses, a town square, large wooden churches, a small synagogue, a fortified wall that surrounded the town, and a river, named the Trnáv
ka for all the thorny bushes that lined its banks. Once, there were three different forests around the town of Trnava: the Šenkvický wood, the Král’ovský wood, and the ancient Satu Mare which once stretched all the way through the Kingdom of Hungary until it reached the Şinca Veche forest, right on the border of Wallachia. Strange things happened in these forests, things that nobody liked to talk about, but everyone did. There was a saying that was popular in the region once, and some still whisper it, even today. “Do not speak of the forest, for it will remember your name.”
But that is another story, for a different day.
Sarah
It’s just after sunset. I can still see the bare oak branches, black against the deepening blue of sky, that make up the forest beyond Trnava’s wall. Eema takes a coin out from her pocket and clears her throat. “Girls, candle lighting,” she says. I look away from the window and my heart skips a beat. It’s time.
Eema kisses the coin and says the word “esh,” and to me, it seems like the word crackles and hisses like flame. She puts the coin in the box that sits on the windowsill. Then she transfers fire from her lips to her fingertips, then to the wick of the candle that sits atop her silver candlesticks. “The soul of man is a lamp in the darkness,” she says as I watch the flames she sets on the windowsill—a sign in our window for all those who are lost and weary, and I hear the echo of my father’s voice in my head, the benediction he says over each of our heads on Friday nights—“Only light can hold back darkness. We are the children of Solomon, children of the light.”
Every week, I stare in awe at how my mother does it. She weaves a prayer of words in the air and turns the strands she weaves into fire in the same way my father manipulates air. Eema lights a candle and suddenly everything is brighter. Abba raises his hands to the sky and the clouds lift and clear. “This is the law of Solomon,” Eema chants. “Man and woman, ish and isha: without the yud and the heh, they are esh—fire.” She places a coin in my hand. “Here,” she says. “Now it’s your turn.” The coin is warm—like her hand, like the fire.
It’s my turn. I’ve waited a long time for this moment. I am twelve now, a bat mitzvah, a daughter of Solomon, blessed by his commandments. I am a part of it now. A part of everything. A wielder of the flame of Solomon—like my father and mother and grandmother and all those before me leading back all the way to the great King Solomon himself. I hold the coin in one hand and twist a dark red curl around one of the fingers of my other hand.
Eema opens a small prayer book and hands it to me. She doesn’t need it—she knows the prayers by heart. I’ve been mouthing the words along with my mother and Nagmama and older sister Hannah as they said them together each week. This is the first step. The beginning of my journey into the world of my ancestors. There is so much I have yet to learn.
After today, I’ll be able to start studying with Abba. I know that once the light of the ner tamid burns within me, I’ll start to follow the ways and read all the books and practice all the exercises so that one day I’ll be as powerful as my father. So that one day I’ll be able to lead a community myself—not as a wildflower tamed back, but like a fireweed that lights up everything around her. I want to be someone—or something, that cannot be put out.
Fire-singe tingles at my fingers and mixes with the heady scent of chicken soup and challah bread. Everything feels right about this moment.
Eema points at the words and with a trembling hand I place my finger on the page. “Esh tamid tukad al ha-mizbeyach, lo tichbeh—an eternal fire shall be kept burning upon the altar; it shall not go out.” I close my eyes and feel the heat within me. I imagine the lighting of a spark which will now grow each day. I write the stroke of each letter of the word—esh—in my mind, strokes of white fire in the darkness. I imagine the wilderness of Sinai, like Eema taught me, the place where Abraham and Sarah met Hashem for the first time. I see the fire of the white letters they saw painted across a dark desert sky.
I kiss the coin and whisper the word “esh,” imagining the word composed of letters, the letters composed of strokes, the strokes twining around each other, the flame burning inside me, now shoved out of my chest by my breath, up through my throat and out past my lips into air. My lips are warm. The coin feels hot. Even though my eyes are closed, I see it happen. There is a crackling, like lightning running up and down my arms and legs and to the ends of each strand of my hair. I quickly open my eyes and place the coin in the tzedakah box on the windowsill.
“Power demands sacrifice and the holiest form of sacrifice is giving alms to the poor. What we take from the universe, we must give back.” My mother’s lessons buzz in my head like the hiss of flame. Her words twin with my father’s words, “children of the light,” and I touch the candle-wick quickly. The spark transfers from my fingers. Lightning fast, the candle bursts into flame. I feel wild and a little bit dangerous. Pure power and potential. I want to see what else I can light. I know in that moment I could burn our house down in a flash.
But then I hear Eema’s voice.
“Baruch,” she prompts.
The prayer. I almost forgot. I close my eyes and concentrate on forming the strokes of the letters in my mind again. This isn’t two letters that form a word—this is a whole blessing. “Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to light the Shabbat flame,” I say, loud and clear and true. This time I weave the letters into words and place the words into a white void—the words reassemble themselves into burning white fire made up of three holy letters——Shabbat. An emptiness which is full of heavenly light. I usher it in. The fire dissipates and shrinks to the size of a spark. It’s still burning inside me, but now it’s just a spark and nothing more—a smoldering ember. I feel a different kind of energy now—something cool and soothing. Relief. I did it! My chest heaves and I smile, tears prickling in my eyes.
I look up. There are tears in my mother’s eyes too. I’ve waited years for this moment, for her approval. There are so many things I’ve done wrong over the past years, so many mistakes I’ve made. Not listening to my parents, fighting them at every turn. Sziporka, they always call me, little spark. But this time, I did something right. My face glows. Gold and bright, like the light of a thousand flames.
“Amen,” Eema says and leans down to kiss my forehead. Her hands smell like smoke and the nettle tea she prepared for Nagmama’s joints right before we lit candles. I wonder if I will always remember this moment. If I will always associate lighting candles with the scent of nettle tea.
I am a bit like a nettle—stinging others in all the wrong places—but I know: something that can sting can also heal. Something that can burn and destroy can also light up the night and keep the darkness at bay. I am a spark of light now, no longer bursting with flame and words I can’t contain. I close my eyes again to make sure that for once I did everything right.
There is only white space inside me.
I take a deep breath and open my eyes.
“Welcome, Sarahleh,” Eema says. “You are a daughter of Solomon now. I’m so proud of you.” She embraces me and I smell dough and lavender, nettle and flame, and everything is crisp and clean and bright.
“Brucha haba’ah!” Hannah says. “Welcome, sister!” She’s waiting next to Eema. When she embraces me, I close my eyes to savor the feeling. Her thick auburn hair smells like grass, like fresh air and rosemary. Maybe now I can be more like her. Maybe Eema and Abba and Nagmama will look at me the way they look at her—with pride and respect, not frustration and anger, doubt and regret.
“Nagmama!” Her arms are waiting to enfold me. But when she touches me I see only darkness, and smell something burnt and rotten, like smoke. My heart skips a beat. I quickly kiss her cheek and turn away. I don’t want to ruin this moment. I have to keep the light shining bright.
I remember how jealous I felt when I watched Hannah enter into the covenant. I remember how I felt like my turn would never come. I look over at Le
vana to see if she feels the same now, but she is staring out the window, looking at the stars. One year from now seems like an eternity, but I know her turn will come sooner than we expect, and someday I will pass the light on to my daughters.
Levana turns her head and grins at me—her pale copper hair surrounds her head like a halo. I lift her in my arms and twirl her around. “Shabbat shalom!” I say, and she giggles. I put her down and Hannah picks her up. I watch and laugh as they spin themselves dizzy. Then Levana holds a hand out to me and we spin until we fall down, over and over again. It’s easy to feel safe here, with a thick thatch of roof over our heads, a fire burning in the hearth, and holy candles lit on the windowsill for all to see. Easy to forget what I saw when I hugged Nagmama.
For the next spin, Hannah doesn’t join us. I see her stand taller, holding herself differently. Now that I’m a bat mitzvah, she is a woman. We are both wielders of the flame of Solomon, but soon she will marry and join her fire with another’s. It’s a burden I’m happy not to have to bear yet, but Hannah wears it like a crown on her head.
There is a knock at the door. Abba bursts in, home from synagogue. He dusts the snow from his big red beard and stomps his boots on the mat by the door. Eema takes his coat and whispers into his ear and his big green eyes find mine. “Mazal tov, Sarahleh!”
I cross the room and leap into his strong arms. I see the pride in his eyes and his face lights up with a glow that comes from the same source as the flame inside me.
Later that night, I lie in bed and even though it’s Shabbat I reach out to the fire that now burns freely within me. I play with it on the inside—not daring to light up the room I share with my sisters, and arguing in my head that I’m not really breaking Shabbat if I’m only playing with a fire I already lit. I stare out the window above Levana’s bed and I wonder what she saw. If she felt the layer of wrongness like I did when I hugged Nagmama—something infected and rotten curling at the edges of everything bright.